


Better, Faster, Stronger

by thedevilchicken



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Captivity, Cybernetics, Dubious Consent, Enemies, Hate Sex, M/M, Prosthesis, Sensation Play, Technophilia, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 00:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14320659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Obi-Wan likes to tell himself he doesn't want it. Nothing could be further from the truth.





	Better, Faster, Stronger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shanlyrical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanlyrical/gifts).



Obi-Wan likes to tell himself he doesn't want it. 

On some level, that at least used to be true; he is a Jedi first and foremost and he has trained for years, he has meditated on the question many times in many ways, and though he cannot quite seem to shed his desires, he has put them away as best anyone can. There have been times when his faith has been tested, yes, but his resolve has only ever bent and never broken. And, when he first encountered Qymaen jai Sheelal, he did not question that resolve.

At the time, there was no need to. Now, however, he has questions. But now, however, is simply not the time to ask them. 

Grievous was never human, even before his programme of enhancements started, and Obi-Wan is aware of that. He was Kaleesh, and he was feared; he was worshipped as a demigod by his people for the things he did, before he started cutting parts away. So much of him had been replaced in the aftermath of his shuttle crash that when they first met, Obi-Wan could almost have believed that he was just another Separatist droid, but then Grievous's gold eyes had focused in on him and he had understood. There was a living brain behind the raft of cybernetics. There was a man behind the mask, and he found himself intrigued. 

The first time they fought, Obi-Wan wasn't ready, but he was by no means alone in the fight. He watched the way the general moved and understood how others who had crossed his path had fallen, and he was ultimately quite relieved to have Anakin's aid to push the general and his escort back toward their ship until the Jedi reinforcements made their entrance. The general escaped, as he always did, but Obi-Wan had collected much more first-hand data for analysis: Grievous didn't move like a droid did. He moved almost like a Jedi, just through technology and not the Force. Obi-Wan became less intrigued and more fascinated. 

The first time Grievous took him prisoner, Obi-Wan was almost expecting it. He understood the general's tactics and, tactically, at that precise moment, a Jedi captive was more valuable to him than a Jedi corpse. What he didn't expect was the spans of time that Grievous spent outside his cell, pacing, his cybernetic arms tucked in neatly behind his back. He talked, perhaps because the constant company of droids had led him to it, and Obi-Wan sat back quietly against the wall to listen. He returned every few hours or so, walking, talking, until his discourse fell into a lull.

"Was the recovery slow or did you take to it quickly?" Obi-Wan asked, breaking the silence abruptly, and he gestured to Grievous's majority metallic body to illustrate his meaning. 

Grievous paused in his otherwise incessant pacing and he turned his head to look at him, through the shimmering forcefield that barred the cell. His eyes narrowed. 

"It was slow," he said, warily. "But I relearned." He stretched out one arm, took the cranial unit of the nearest B1 battle droid in the palm of one large hand, and he crushed it while the others watched, somewhat alarmed. "I improved."

"I'm not sure I could call it an improvement, personally," Obi-Wan said, pleasantly. "Though I suppose I hadn't made your acquaintance before you were rebuilt as a walking toaster oven." 

Grievous growled, and he clawed at the forcefield that separated them, and then he stalked away with a clash of his frame against catwalks. But Obi-Wan had to admit he had some level of respect welling inside him, however unbidden it might have been: it had taken time for even Anakin to learn control of his mechno-arm, and Grievous lacked the clear advantages that Anakin had. He'd relearned every movement. He'd learned to fight again. More than that, he'd learned to fight with a peculiar grace that the remainder of the Separatist Droid Army simply could not match.

Of course, Obi-Wan was rescued, Anakin and his trusty padawan rushing in to save the day. But, of course, that was far from the last time the two of them met. 

The second second time that Grievous took him prisoner, Obi-Wan was cuffed hand and foot to a metal bench. He understood the general principle: Grievous intended to torture him for information that he could use against the Republic. And, it seemed, he intended to perform the interrogation himself. 

Obi-Wan tried to use the Force to pry his way into Grievous's head, but either the Kaleesh were remarkably resistant to tricks of the mind or Grievous's will was far too strong; Obi-Wan would not have been surprised to find that either option was the ultimate key to that conundrum. He tried to use the Force to push him back but his metal toes clamped down against the deckplates and rendered that plan completely impotent. In the end, Obi-Wan lay back and told himself he allowed Grievous to tear his robes. He told himself he allowed Grievous to look at him, at his body, his bare skin, seeming almost as intrigued as Obi-Wan was himself. 

"You humans are so fragile," Grievous said, his mechanical fingers walking a line down Obi-Wan's chest. "A single slip and..." He dragged down with his thumb and the edge of the metal was just sharp enough for a thin line of blood to well up in the centre of the four-inch scratch he left. It almost seemed predictable.

"So are you, general, under that hard shell of yours," Obi-Wan replied, calmly. 

Grievous chuckled, the sound of it harsh, neither fully organic nor synthetic. He didn't ask Obi-Wan a single question after that, perhaps because he knew he wouldn't talk; he just bruised his skin for fun - his hips, his ribs, his wrists, his thighs. And then, the cavalry arrived, but Obi-Wan could feel the general's metal fingers on his skin. Back at the Temple, when he stripped and studied himself in a full-length mirror, his skin was twenty different shades of blacks and yellows and purples underneath his robes. 

The third time that Grievous took him prisoner, Obi-Wan started to sense a pattern. He was dangling by his wrists when he woke on Grievous's ship, his trousers pulled down to the tops of his boots and his robes hanging open. Grievous's slit pupils were narrowed in on everything that was exposed. 

"Human anatomy is so...primitive," he said, stepping forward, his cloak dragging on the floor. He ran one metal hand up over Obi-Wan's chest to settle at his throat. He squeezed just for a moment, tightly enough that Obi-Wan struggled in a breath, and then that hand drifted down. It moved over his ribs, his abdomen, one hip, until his cold fingertips brushed at the base of his cock. The way his eyes looked, if Grievous had had a tongue, he would have licked him with it.

"Kaleesh anatomy is so...metallic," Obi-Wan replied, looking Grievous up and down. Grievous laughed harshly. Obi-Wan hadn't intended that at all, but there were many things that he hadn't intended; one of them was that his cock begin to stiffen as Grievous's long, cold fingers wrapped around it. Grievous seemed surprised, but very pleased with the development. As he stroked him, slowly, he didn't ask a single question. When Obi-Wan came, he dipped his fingertips into his come and turned his hand, inspecting it. He seemed intrigued but then Anakin arrived, to save the day or at least to save Obi-Wan. 

Today is the fourth time Grievous has taken him prisoner, which is pushing fact beyond a joke. The Clone Wars have been anything but logical, however. And so, here he is again. 

"Do you have questions?" Obi-Wan asks, as Grievous enters the room. He's already naked - the droids in the general's employ saw to that before they cuffed his wrists and his ankles and strung him up in the centre of the cell. His arms are cuffed above his head and his toes barely touch the deckplates, but it's small enough in its dimensions that Grievous almost brushes up against the ceiling. If it weren't for the chill in the air, it might almost be cosy. 

"Would you answer if I had?" Grievous replies, circling him slowly. 

"No." 

"Then I have no questions." 

He runs his cold hands down Obi-Wan's back to the curve of his arse. He steps in close. He towers over him. Obi-Wan can see the shadow that he casts.

"Why aren't you scared?" he asks, his synthetic voice by Obi-Wan's ear. His hands travel to his hips. His chest plates press flat against Obi-Wan's back. 

"Because you don't want me dead," Obi-Wan replies. "There's something else you want from me." And when the tip of one long, blunt finger teases the cleft of his arse, Obi-Wan knows he's right. Grievous's interest is piqued. He's the one who's done the piquing. 

He's thought about this, though he knows he ought not to; he's a Jedi, first and foremost, and whatever this is is not strictly in line with the Jedi code. His interest in Qymaen jai Sheelal is not purely tactical. His interest is in the sensitivity of his robotic limbs, of his plates and his digits, how his many tactile sensors provide feedback to his living, organic brain. Anakin's interest would be in the technology itself, in its applications, in its strengths and its weaknesses and improvements to be made, but Obi-Wan's interest is more...practical. He wants to know if a man composed of so much metal can feel anything at all. 

"Tell me, General Kenobi," Grievous says, close by his ear. "What do you think I want?"

Obi-Wan turns, tugging against his cuffs to look Grievous in his pale gold eyes. 

"I think you want to know if the sensation of sex would be the same as it was," he says, conversationally, though his tone has an edge. "Am I right?"

"Perhaps." 

Obi-Wan rattles his cuffs. "Then let me go," he says. "I could be of some assistance."

Grievous considers this. Obi-Wan can tell that in the instant before he releases the cuffs he almost says no, but then he doesn't and Obi-Wan knows that's because he wants to see where this might lead. Frankly, so does he, even if he knows that his next move should be to disable him, to tear apart his chest plates and crush his heart that's beating there inside. But that's not exactly the Jedi way and they both know that, even if nothing about this is the Jedi way at all. Jedi don't lie awake at night and think about the chill of metal fingers on their skin. Jedi don't have fantasies. Jedi have the Force.

Grievous releases him. So he rests his hands flat on Grievous's chest and he says, "Can you feel that?"

"Yes," Grievous replies, and so he moves down, following the contours of the chest plates down to his metallic spinal column. He presses his fingers between the stationary vertebrae, teasing at the exposed mechanisms. He knows if Grievous moved at all, his fingers would be crushed.

"Can you feel that?" he asks. 

"Yes," Grievous replies, his eyes on him, his voice turning harsher, so he moves down again. He dips his fingers into the joints at Grievous's hips. He presses his palms flat over the plates that form his groin. He goes down on his knees to trace his legs, the workings of them, struts and servos and motor housings, plates and exposed nodes of sensory arrays. Obi-Wan finds those places as he stands and moves around him, his fingers teasing, prying, exploring, his touch far from clinical. He presses his mouth to the metal plate where his shoulder blade should be, he presses his mouth to the raised ring that surrounds his neck, and he steps to the front and he reaches up. When his thumbs brush the living skin around his eyes, Grievous make a sound that Obi-Wan is not entirely sure exists in nature, unless maybe it does on Kalee. 

"Can you feel that?" he asks. 

Grievous takes a ragged breath. His eyes are focused on him tightly. " _Yes_ ," he says.

He pushes Obi-Wan back. He pushes him down, bending him at the waist over the medical bench that's stationed nearby. Obi-Wan can feel Grievous's hands move over his thighs and down his back, two hands pressing down between his shoulder blades and the others gripping at his hips. His hands part Obi-Wan's cheeks and he hears a mechanical sound, like parts shifting. Then he feels something else come to rest there, chilly, flat against his hole, which reflexively twitches tight. 

"Can you feel that?" Grievous asks, almost like he's mocking him. 

"Yes," he replies, and he supposes he's meant to be intimidated. He supposes Grievous thinks that he won't want this, as a Jedi and his enemy, and that assumption is both logical and reasonable. The issue is that Obi-Wan relies, in this moment, on neither logic nor reason; as he closes his eyes, what he relies on is the feeling of Grievous's huge body pressed against him, and every time he's thought about exactly this. He regrets that he's thought about it often.

He reaches back with one hand and Grievous lets him do so, his fingers fumbling to define the outlines of what's resting there against him. He knows what it is that Grievous has approximated; it protrudes from his pelvic plates, long and thick and hard along its length, mobile only at the base. He'd like to go down on his knees and suck on it, let his teeth clatter against it to see what Grievous's reaction would be, but he can't turn. 

"This feels remarkably humanoid in form," Obi-Wan says, squeezing, because what he feels is not what he might have reasonably expected. "I thought you were Kaleesh, Qymaen." 

"I am whatever I choose to make myself," Grievous replies, hotly, and Obi-Wan can see how that might even be true. There is no reason that Grievous should have the short, thick shaft of a Kaleesh with its bony spine that Obi-Wan has read about, and thought about, and _thought about_. But he has no time to dwell on this; he feels Grievous's fingers rub slick with oil between his cheeks and feels the tip of the big metal cock directed down blunt against his hole. He feels the push and the power behind it. He feels himself stretch open to accommodate it as he takes in a sharp breath. He feels Grievous push inside and from the sound he makes, he can feel this just as keenly as Obi-Wan does. 

Grievous has him like that. He can feel him inside him, long and thick and solid and completely, utterly unyielding, and he feels himself pull tight around the length of him. His own cock feels heavy and his breath feels tight and his hands press down hard against the tabletop, slipping as he pushed back against him, taking him in deep. Grievous's cold hands are squeezing at his hips so tightly that he knows they'll leave bruises shaped just like his fingers and his second set of hands are holding him down between his shoulder blades, not that he wants to move. He wants to fuck himself on the length of Grievous's prosthetic cock that he is almost positive that the general has had installed behind his pelvic plates especially for him, or at least especially to have him. He knows he shouldn't find that as thrilling a notion as he does.

Obi-Wan claws at the table underneath him. He feels one of Grievous's hands snake around to stroke his cock and he can feel himself shifting his hips almost entirely against his will, back and forth, back and forth, pushing into Grievous's hand and then back against his cock. His stomach feels tight and his cock is hard, his skin is flushed and his breath is short, and this is everything he has sworn so many times that he should not even contemplate. But he has no choice, he tells himself. He would like to believe he doesn't want it, but he knows all too well that he does. 

And when he comes, over Grievous's hand and squeezing tight around his cock, knowing that both those things have been warmed by his own body, Grievous makes a sound as if that's the peak of this for him as well. Perhaps it is, because he stills, and his blunt metal fingertips rake down lightly over the length of Obi-Wan's sweat-damp spine. He's still inside him for another moment and the lingering effects of Obi-Wan's not-unwanted orgasm make him pull tight around him again and again. Then Grievous pulls back. It might be because they can both hear the sound of blasters and the hum of a lightsaber down the corridor outside, perhaps more than one. It might be just because they're finished.

Obi-Wan turns. Grievous is watching him. The long metal cock that was so recently pushed up inside him retracts behind Grievous's pelvic plates, a mechanical motion with a mechanical sound that makes Obi-Wan's chest feel tight because he knows he'll remember it. Grievous could have kept this up for hours and Obi-Wan suspects he would have let him; he almost rues the impending rescue, as ridiculous a thought as he knows that to be.

Obi-Wan reaches for his clothes. "Did you feel that?" he asks, almost casually, as he's dressing, as Grievous lets him dress. Grievous's eyes narrow. He steps in close and he leans down till they're face to face and eye to eye, two hands gripping at Obi-Wan's clothed biceps. The blaster fire is coming closer and, for a moment, Obi-Wan thinks he'll leave him there without a word. 

"Yes," Grievous rasps, defying expectations as he leans closer still. "Did you?"

Obi-Wan is aching. His wrists are chafed and his hips are bruised and the stretched rim of his hole is throbbing but, more than that, he _aches_. He knows that doing this was wrong; it's against everything he is. 

His hands rise to grip Grievous's metal shoulders. He clenches his jaw and steels himself. "Yes," he says. "I did." 

Then Grievous pushes him away, and he turns, and he runs. The general will live to fight another day, as Anakin arrives outside the cell. 

Obi-Wan would like to think he doesn't want this, but he knows that's a lie. The thought of it keeps him awake at night. It stiffens his cock until he can't ignore it. 

Grievous is nowhere to be found, but he knows this is not the last time he'll see him. And, in the meantime, he believes some part of Qymaen jai Sheelal will think of Obi-Wan Kenobi as often as he thinks of him.


End file.
